Herald Angels and Other Noisy Beasts
by Lena Carr
Summary: Like any holiday with random in-laws, there were awkward, brittle silences and totally inappropriate comments that should have been left unsaid. They lived through it. (Written for the USS Caryl Christmas Fanfic/Fanart challenge. S2/S3 Interval . Team Group. PG-13 for limited Daryl language. More notes at the end of part 5)
1. The winter's rage freeze thy blood

**A/N** at the end of part 5.

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><p><em>In which there is something of a mutiny.<em>

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><p>The farm burned in September. Or October. Carol flung herself onto the back of Daryl's bike and held on as they rode for hours, until the darkness and the roar of the engine and the ache in her back was all one misery. When they finally stopped and the group huddled around a fire, making a silent inventory of their loses – Shane, Andrea, Patricia, Jimmy, <em>safety<em>, food, a home, _trust in each other_ - Carol just shrank down, folding herself over and over again, like a scrap of paper around a set of backless earrings. Insubstantial, impossible to expect the wrapping to hold – but she had nothing else for binding. She even wished for Sophia to be alive, just to not be alone and abandoned among these quarrelsome, shattered, grey-faced strangers.

The days flowed together like rain into a gutter – filthy, rushing, and forced into a sterile channel, bound only for a deeper darkness. Carol made an occasional effort to rise above the flood – learn to shoot a rifle, take a turn driving, pull her weight – only to be dragged down again by the miserable buffeting from the trash of day to day. So she let the surge pull her along, downstream.

Then one day, at dawn, Carol found herself crouched beside Lori as the younger woman puked up the rest of an empty stomach into a ditch. Beth knelt on Lori's other side, rubbing her back and murmuring wordless encouragement.

Lori lifted her head finally, staring at the sky, her nose pink from the exertion and a tear running down from the corner of her eye. She waved away the cloth that Carol offered. "No, not done yet." Across the road, most of the rest of the group stood arguing over a map spread on the grimy lime-green hood of the Hyundai. Rick's back sat squarely against them. Carl bounced from foot to foot, trying to peer around the grown up elbows.

After a moment, Lori sniffed again and said, "Carol, would you go see what my husband is planning? Please?"

"I've got her," Beth said, and held out her hand for the damp cloth. Carol pushed herself to her feet and crossed the road to the cars.

It was the storage yard at Carlton, of course – T-Dog and Rick had been having a version of this disagreement on and off for the last two days. The group had found the storage yard back before the season actually turned, but it was nothing more than gravel, fence, and metal, so they passed it by in favor of the greener pastures that – Rick insisted – were just over the hill. "Too much work," Rick had said, "for a pit like that. We can find a house, with supplies, if we just keep looking." T had looked at Glenn, Glenn had shrugged, and they had all piled back in the vehicles. Easier than arguing.

T made a note on the map margins, though, in his cramped and nearly unreadable print, and now, seven weeks later, when they swung though Carlton again, T had enlisted Glenn, Maggie, and Hershel to help him convince Rick it was worth a second look.

The single defection from this diplomatic effort was Daryl, who had parked the Triumph at the head of the convoy and was slouched over the handlebars, picking at his hangnails with the same knife he used on walkers. Carol gave it five minutes before he stomped over, called them all idiots for wasting time, and then insisting they fall in with whatever Rick said was the right idea.

By the time Carol crossed the road to the map-side huddle, Daryl had appeared at her elbow, scowling and hunching his ears into the tattered flannels under his jacket. _Maybe not even five minutes._

"Okay, fine. But why do ya'll think this is worth the time?" Rick said as they joined the group clustered over the map.

"The last five houses we've check have been stripped clean," Hershel said, patiently. "If a place does not have locks, then it is likely that someone else would have made use of whatever was there. We might fare better if we concentrated on places that can be secured."

Rick frowned with that disgruntled look he'd been wearing more often lately, the one that said _Ah am the leader of this group why are you questioning mah authority_? "We're short on fuel. We can't be wasting gas on a boondoggle that would just be another wasted trip. Someone else could have gutted them. They could be full of walkers."

"I'll go," Daryl volunteered. "Bike's fast, sips gas, I can roll by, get an eyeful, come right back."

Glenn blinked at this unexpected support, but didn't hesitate to make use of it. "We can fill up on water here, then go back to this intersection here –" he jabbed a finger at the map, "Check those cars for any gas. I don't think that we finished with them, last time we came through." He looked up at Daryl, then back at Rick. "That restaurant there – we could hold up there for a while, if we had to. Daryl can meet us there."

Rick leaned over the map, his jaw clenching and relaxing. Finally he straightened and looked at Daryl. "You don't go alone. And you take something other than the bow."

Daryl's eyes flicked at him, then away again. "Guns are noisy, draw walkers. Don't need help."

Glenn and T rolled their eyes. Even Hershel sighed. Maggie folded her arms. "Really? You roll around on that noisy thing and then complain about gunshots? You have selective hearing loss or something, there, Lone Ranger? Dropped on your head as a child?"

"Shut it, girl," Daryl snarled. "Don't need your mouth."

"Now hold on –" Hershel started, only to be cut off by Daryl snapping back, "Not you, either, old man."

Glenn held out a hand in supplication. "Guys, we can't -" T-Dog just folded his elbows on the hood and buried his face in his arms.

Carol said, "I'll go."

When the abrupt silence dragged, she shrugged, lifted her chin. "I'm the lightest, so we won't burn much more gas than if Daryl went alone. And you said –" she turned to Rick –" you said I was okay with the rifle." She squared her shoulders, gestured back at the map, at the places they'd been, the options they had left. "It's half an hour at the most, one way. If Daryl will take me, I'll go."

Carol kept her eyes on the map, aware of five other people turning to look at Daryl. When the quiet went on, she dared to lift her eyes to his. After a moment, he gave a half nod, half shrug. "Git a jacket. Gonna be moving, there and back again."

Five minutes later, Beth was helping Lori into T-Dog's two-toned red and white Suburban, everyone else had filled water jugs from the near side of the road, and Carol was clinging to Daryl's waist again, this time with Maggie's 30-06 Savage slung along her back. He kicked the Triumph to life and turned the bike east.


	2. The rude wind's wild lament

_In which Carol briefly considers a career in the cavalry._

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><p>Daryl hadn't lied about the cold. The wind bit at her ears beneath the cap she'd borrowed from Beth. Her hands were freezing – one wrapt around the other but while the inner one was warm enough against Daryl's coat, the other was always icy. On the smooth stretches, she swapped them back and forth. She'd long since stopped caring what he thought of the way she buried her nose against his back.<p>

With her eyes shut, she'd never see the spill that killed them both.

Eventually – after the ache had started up again in her hip bones – the bike slowed, Daryl's body bending with the turns. When she felt him take his feet off the stirrups to bring the bike to a crawl, she sat up and took her head off the wings on his back. He let the bike coast a few more feet, then stopped and killed the engine.

Standing, he said, "Off," over his shoulder, and when she had clambered down – watching the muffler, because she'd barked an ankle on it, after the farm, and still had the scar – kicked down the stand and swung his leg over.

"That's it, right?" She squinted. "It's…small. I remembered it being bigger." The container yard's fences were duller, now, than they had even been two months previously. She could still pick out where the brighter wire met with the auto repair yard next door. On the other side, an open field stretched out a quarter mile before ending against a treeline.

"Maybe some of the fences ran off."

Carol glanced at him. Daryl's expression was deadpan, as if daring her to laugh at the…whatever it was. It wasn't even a joke.

A rattling crash drew her attention back to the yard. _Walkers_. She breathed through the first hammering shock, forced herself to really look, study them.

"Two a'them," Daryl said, his crossbow out of the saddlebags and into his hands as if by magic. Clumsily, she unslung the rifle then checked the safety and the chamber, like Maggie had shown her. "Nope, there's another one. Three."

But not in the container yard – the walkers were in the auto shop side of the fence, one of them in stained grey coveralls. Two of them, including the one in coveralls, wandered up to the fence and clawed at it, making the chain link rattle.

Daryl let his weapon drop, turned in a circle, before seeming to come to a decision. "Kay. Hop back on."

"We're leaving? Already? I –" the rest of it was cut off as Daryl cranked the bike again. Carol sighed and slung the rifle before clambering back on again.

"Not leaving yet," Daryl yelled over his shoulder. "Making a slow roll-by, see what else shows up." He gunned the engine. "Hold on."

She didn't grab his waist this time, but instead fisted the coat at his shoulders. Slowly, they rode down to the auto shop, turned to pass before the container yard and then circled through the parking lot again. This time, Daryl took the bike almost to the end of the gravel, craning his neck to see past the concrete block building at the end of the container yard.

Carol blinked. She could have sworn that she saw a flash of yellow-orange dart through the grass. Y_es_. A cat, lean but with a shining coat, paused by the container yard fence to lock eyes with Carol. Only for a brief second, before it slipped under the bottom wire and dove for a gap under the wall of the block shed.

One more circle around the yard, Daryl gunning the engine as loud as he could, and then he took them back up the access road and the spot of sunlight at the top of the hill.

"Now what?" she asked, when he had finished turning the bike left and right, until it was parked just the way he wanted.

Daryl shrugged. "Take 'em out. Wait to see what else shows up. Then go check out the yard." He waved at hand at her, then at the fence. "Go on."

She looked at him, at the walkers – all three of them at the fence now – and then at the gun in her hands. "Me?"

"You wanted more practice, right?" She nodded, swallowed, brought the gun up to her shoulder.

"Use the bike," he said. "We got time, no rush." Circling the bike, he raised a hand, beckoned her to him. With the other hand, he pointed at the pavement by the front tire. "There. It'll support your arm, and the muffler won't bite you."

She knelt, going all the way down at first before coming back up to lean against the front wheel of the bike, her buttcheek resting on one heel. The fender bent a little under the weight of her arm and she took her arm off it, rested it against the frame instead.

All the lessons she'd had ran through her head at once, _breathe, relax, roll your cheek, box the sights, watch the target, watch the far sight, breathe_.

The coverall walker staggered just as she pulled the trigger and her first shot clipped its ear. Damnit. Her first shot was always her best. The second went completely wild, like it always did. She huffed a breath, took her head off the rifle stock to glare at the fence.

Down in the yard, two walkers shook at the fence while the third stared off into space, as if looking for what had bitten its ear. Carol shifted her feet, ignoring the frigid asphalt biting her knee through her trousers, and lined up the rifle again.

Right over her, Daryl said, "Wait." His hands were suddenly on her shoulders, shifting her grip on the rifle. "Tuck your elbow close. Don't just hold the forestock, grab it, pull it tight t'your shoulder." She complied, then shifted her knee a bit, tried again. "Yeah. Like that." His hands loosened on her arms, but stayed there, lightly bracketing her. "Try now. Remember breathing."

Again, the first round went where she wanted, and the grey overhauled walker dropped like a rock. When the sights came back to focus, they were still lined up right, and it was only a fractional movement to sight in on the next walker.

"Attagirl!"

Grinning, she shifted the rifle, found the last walker, _breathe_, and dropped him as well.

Daryl stepped back, let her come to her feet. Her head was light. _Look at that_.

"Now what? Check it out?"

He shook his head. "Give it a bit. See if anything crawls out." He settled his rump on the edge of the bike seat, his back to the yard, eyes watching the road they'd come in on. She slung the rifle, walked about a bit, kicking little rocks, before her eyes fell on the shiny brass shells and she remembered that Maggie said to collect up the empty cartridges.

Four shells came up easy, but the fifth one escaped her for a moment.

"By your foot," Daryl said, and so it was.

"Thanks." Pocketing the brass, she circled back around, settled against the seat like a mirror to Daryl, her attention on the yard. Time passed. A black fleck floated past, just above the treeline, and kept going. Something grey and brown bounced under the trees, rattling the dry leaves and making both of them start, before the woodthatch spread its wings and dove out, heading for the next clump of trees. Carol swallowed, put her eyes back on the gravel, the fence and the field beyond. The Triumph's cooling engine ticked a few more times. Down behind the chainlink, the orange cat came out again, pausing to watch the now-still yard before strolling to the fence and slipping out.

"Do you remember a cat being there, last time? In the yard?"

Daryl half swung around, looking over his other shoulder at the yard, before turning back to the road. "Nope. There one now?"

Carol nodded. "An orange one. Looks like it's living under that little shed. Do you think that means something?"

"What, like black cats are bad luck, and yaller ones are good luck?"

"Are they?"

Daryl shrugged. "Dunno. Never seen it make a difference."

"Do chupacabras eat cats?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Carol regretted them. But Daryl only shrugged again, seeming to take no offense.

"Dunno. Didn't ask. Not gonna." The quiet stretched on again for a bit.

"It could mean," Carol said, "that the yard is pretty safe against walkers. That cat hasn't been eaten. Maybe it'll be a good place."

Daryl nodded, his lips pursed. "Maybe. More'n likely, means that place's got rats."

They waited another timeless while – long enough for Carol to be aware of the change in the slant of the fence shadow – before going down to the yard.

And like things did, some days, it all more or less fell into place after that.


	3. Where and what his dwelling?

_In which dates are debated._

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><p>The gate was locked, but less than a dozen steps down the fenceline was the shiny glint of metal in the frost-withered grass. It was a mass of brass keys hooked to a frayed leather strap. In summer, the weeds would have hidden them completely. "Look," Carol said, holding the keys aloft.<p>

She tossed them underhand to Daryl, who caught them one-handed before slinging his bow and slowly picking his way through the mass of unmarked keys.

Eight forty-foot shipping containers crowded the yard - six forty-foot standards in various shades and a pair of half-length boxes in sandy yellow. The keys fit the locks on the containers, making the bolt cutters in the saddle bags unnecessary, except for one shipping container secured with a dial tumbler.

"This'll do, right?" Carol asked. "This is what we were looking for." They had opened two containers to find a jumble of furniture, household goods – including winter coats and two boxes of blankets – and forty year old college textbooks. Now Daryl was pacing back and forth, shading his eyes at the upper edges of the containers.

"Yeah," he said, obviously distracted. "Here, gimme a hand." Seizing the pry handle of a red-painted container, he braced his feet, started applying leverage. Together, they got the door cracked open, only to both of them jump backwards when something small and brown darted across Carol's toes.

Cursing, Daryl snatched up his crossbow, fumbling a bolt into place. He was far too slow – the rat had already taken refuge under the next container. Carol hung on the pry bar, still gasping for breath.

"Tol'ja," he said, and grinned. "Now, why were you hanging out in here…" He seized the edge of the door, braced a foot, and pulled.

The container was full of food.

A hole gaped in the roof, letting sunlight stream in through a triangular rip in the metal a bit wider than Carol's head. A bright blue tarp - faded in streaks and wind-beaten to tatters - hung half in, half out of the hole. Between the rats and the rain the hole had also let in, much of the food was spoiled – burst boxes of pancake mix, spilled sugar, plastic bottles of oil with the bottoms chewed out.

But there were also untouched glass jars and canned goods – some with the labels washed off, the others clearly identified.

"Sweet," Daryl said, and ripped open one of the closed cardboard boxes. "Ha. Lookit, jerky and crackers that the little shits hadn't gotten to yet." He pulled out handfuls, stuffing them in his pockets before passing more to Carol.

She took the bright orange crackers, bent to read the crooked black marker on the closest box. _New house, second bath_. And under it, in thick bold print, _KEEP_.

Daryl stuck a cracker in his mouth and pulled his knife, ready to slice open the next box.

"Wait," Carol said. "Let's wait, until everyone is here." When he stared at her quizzically, she went on, "It'll be like opening Christmas presents."

Daryl snorted, shrugged, and put the knife away. "Well, good thing it's Christmas, then."

"Oh, like you know."

"Sure I do. New moon tonight, it's th' twenty-fifth tomorrow." He pulled down another box to get a better view of the roof, but when he passed it to Carol it dropped straight through her hands.

She jumped, looked down at the box – deodorant, blue containers – and back at Daryl. "You're serious."

"What? Course I am. Same as I'm serious this is mess we'll have to clear out, if we don't wanna be sleeping in the cars again."

"You've known what day it is, all this time."

Now it was his turn to stare. "You don't?"

"None of us did! All this time, not being sure of how much time had passed –"

"A lot, that's how much. A bunch of days." He stepped out of the container, waved her to follow him. "But they only come one day a day, you can count them easy enough." He threw his weight into swinging the door shut.

"How?"

"I dunno, fingers? Take your boots off when you get too high?" He made a quick sweep around the yard before leading the way back to the bike.

"Weren't you going to tell us?"

"Not my job."

She gave up arguing about it only when he kicked the engine back to life.

The road back was like the road away, only with the sun on her shoulders. The air still froze her hands. It was a shame, Carol thought, that she couldn't tuck them between the layers of Daryl's clothes. She _was_ keeping his back warm.

If she tried, though, he'd probably jerk and crash the bike. It was only twenty miles back to the others - she could live with cold fingers for that long.

Her fingertips were not quite ready to drop off when the bike pulled into the parking lot of Henry Hog's BBQ and Bar. Sitting behind Daryl, she couldn't see the expression on his face when they rolled up to the porch. From the looks that Rick, Maggie and Glenn gave them, though, it was an epic shit-eating grin. "Jackpot," Daryl said, as soon as he cut the engine. "Grab your butts, it's moving day."

Rick drew a breath as if to argue, but Glenn and Maggie whooped in unison and darted back inside, leaving Rick no time to say anything. Instead, he strode across the gravel to Daryl. "Took you long enough." His eyes raked over Carol, then back to Daryl. "Is it good? Is it safe?"

Carol shoved again at Daryl's shoulders and finally he stood up to let her scramble off, the rifle muzzle banging on the seat. As she found her footing, legs already stiff from riding, Carol looked up to find Daryl staring at her, with an expression she could not read. Then he turned back to Rick. "Yeah. Only walkers there were a handful stuck in the auto yard next door. Carol took 'em out, we hung around, waiting for company to show up. Nothing. Containers got a lot of stuff in them." He pulled a packet of crackers from one pocket, tossed them to Rick. "Lots more where that came from."

Then Maggie was piling out of the door with Beth at her heels, and demanding – nicely – her rifle back, and T pulled the Suburban around, with a space for Carol in the back next to Lori and the navigator's seat up front for Rick.

Daryl kicked the bike into gear and led the way.

"Is it really good?" Lori asked, quietly, over Carl's head as he chewed on crackers.

_It's like Christmas_, Carol wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come off her tongue. Not yet. "It's good. It's not the farm, but it's good."

The next six hours were a maze of discovery, arguments, plans, a trip to the treeline with Maggie and Glenn to fill water bottles, revised plans, two rejected proposals for the latrine area – _heavens they had toilet paper again, boxes of it _- and an accident with oil-soaked blankets and the lunch-time fire that filled the red container with smoke, emptied it of people and also emptied half of their newly filled water jugs, putting it out.

Carol snatched up the one bottle with boiled drinking water in it and held on to it, even when Beth tried to snatch it from her hands. "Gravel!" T-Dog shouted, "Get dirt!" while Rick and Glenn threw things out of the container, helter-skelter.

They put the fire out, Daryl snatched the new tarp off the roof that Glenn had insisted had to go up, and they stood and watched the smoke slowly rise out of the hole.

Glenn drew his eyes down from the grey line, turned to Daryl and said, "You were right." Daryl snarled, dabbed his tongue on a skinned place on his knuckles, and tossed the tarp to one side.

"Just remember it, next time," was all he said.

The afternoon wore on. When Carol looked up again from boiling more water – outside, this time – it was to see things slowly taking shape.

T-Dog was shifting the mass of boxes and furniture out of the yellow container beside the red one, Carl and Beth helping. The younger two made the same number of trips as T, but with a single box between them. Meanwhile, Glenn sorted boxes into stacks of food, not food, and clothes, and Rick argued with Daryl about the utility of emptying a third container.

"Well, how the hell long are we planning on staying? I thought you didn't wanna set up house."

She let Rick's reply fade away. It could change tomorrow, or the next day. Better to focus on something else, something _now_. Food this evening, shelter, blankets.

Carol's attention kept coming back to the empty water jugs, but there never seemed to be someone available to go with her for refills. She eventually hung the water jugs – strung together with ropes for easier carrying - on the fence and drifted over to the blankets staging area by the container door. Hershel was sorting bedding and foam pads, while his daughters tried to help Lori with restarting the inside fire under the roof hole. When Beth snatched the box of matches out of Maggie's hands and stomped back into the red box, Carol drew Hershel and Maggie aside.

She'd thought about it for nearly ten hours, and there still didn't seem to be a best way to say it. "Daryl says that he thinks it's Christmas Eve."

Maggie's face was incredulous. Her voice was scornful. "How would _he_ know?"

"He says it's the new moon, that it's time." She looked from Hershel to Maggie and back again. "Daryl seemed so sure, but I don't have any way to check."

Hershel sighed and looked up at the sinking sun. "Moon phases. I should have realized it myself." He tugged his coat closer, the lines on his face deepening as he searched his memory. "This year, Christmas Eve falls on a new moon. I remember looking at the almanac, last spring, when I was noting the days of the equinox, long before any of this began." His face grew more settled. "Still, I am happier to know it now than tomorrow, or the next day. We can still celebrate."

"Daddy…" Maggie's voice was half amused, half dubious, and all anticipatory.

"Carol, could you give Maggie and I a moment to discuss something?"

She opened her mouth to argue – _celebrate what? With who?_ – but something of the authority Hershel had worn back at the farm had re-entered his frame, and Maggie…Maggie had an expression on her face that Carol had long since dubbed _levering the world_.

One of the similarities between Maggie and Lori was their mutual love of comfort and routine. Disrupt the patterns that made up their lives - and the lives of the rest of their families - and the two women were equally discomforted and hostile. The difference was, Lori only knew one way to re-right that which had come upset – and that was to find someone she could nag into fixing it.

Maggie didn't nag. Maggie went looking for a handhold on the universe, and heaved until things suited her again. And God help anyone who stepped in her way.

Carol shut her mouth, nodded, and walked away. Two steps, and she stopped. _When did I learn that?_ She hadn't known that about Lori, or Maggie, on the night the farm burned.

_What else do I know?_

Behind her, Hershel and Maggie were still silent, waiting on her to leave them be. Carol picked up one foot, put it down, picked up the other.

At the first stack of boxes, she sat down. She stared down at her boots, at the thin crust of mud on them. They were good boots. She had good pants tucked into them – warm, loose, with roomy pockets. She could wade through a lot of water in those boots.

_Maybe I didn't spend all that time, just not-drowning._

As the evening wore on, it became clear that the Greenes had some sort of celebration planned. (They told Glenn, which meant the rest of them knew soon enough.) The men took it in good stride - at least, they didn't stop duct-taping a tarp over the open end of the container to argue - but Carol began to notice a tightening in her gut. Not nervousness, because what was an ugly social situation compared to the dead walking out in the darkness? But _concerned_, just a little. Setting up in the containers was a little like a victory. Finding the food – and a promise of quiet rest – even more. A fight could ruin it.

They were ten people, a lot of guns, and one little metal box in a very dark field.

In the end, it all turned out. Like any holiday with random in-laws, there were awkward, brittle silences and totally inappropriate comments that should have been left unsaid.

They all lived through it.


	4. Sure wealth or rank possessing

_In which noises are made, some of them joyful._

* * *

><p>Just short of sunset, the men had finally finished taping one tarp over the open end of the red container, just as T set the last box back in the new end-of-the-container half wall. (Complete with ventilation holes.) The fire had been convinced to not smoke too badly (Carl had been set to stripping every last scrap of foam, faux leather and fabric from the broken furniture) and a sort of grill had been set up to keep sparks from spraying too far. Two buckets of gravelly sand, a stack of firewood, five boxes for sitting, and a narrow passage through the blankets made for a home that was crowded, but warm.<p>

Then it was just a matter of settling every one in – the Greenes and Glenn to the far end, T-Dog almost opposite the fire, Rick and Lori bracketing Carl, and Carol splitting the space between Carl and the wall with Lori. Daryl settled in behind her, almost at the door but still so close his bow bumped her knee as he re-arranged his bedroll.

Maggie and T-Dog served soup – or, as they had taken to calling it, _goop_. Soup was liquid and unlikely to have any burned bits, but goop was thicker, could be reasonably eaten with a fork, and was much less likely to be spilled when the bowl was passed from hand to hand.

Any more, soup was when they'd been stretching the left overs too far, and were making up for content with hot water.

Once the bowls were around, Maggie stood, one hand hidden behind her back. "As I think everyone has heard, we've agreed that tonight is Christmas Eve. It being short notice and all, we're going to skip the presents this year. But to keep the holiday cheer we have –" she brought out her hand with a flourish, waving a rectangular brown box "- HOT COCOA!"

Carol had been there when Glenn found the box of generic powder packets. She still cheered like a loon with the rest of them.

When the cheers threatened to turn into actual offers of assistance, Maggie waved them all down. "No, all ya'll stay sitting down, or this'll be like the Horrible Soup Night Disaster all over again. Me and T will get a cup to everyone. One cup of cocoa, and then all the hot water you want to rinse the cup out, after. No, Rick, we _got_ this."

And they did, with remarkably little incident. Carol passed the first cup that came to her to Daryl, and took the second as though it were…well, very hot chocolate-flavored liquid in a chipped mug that read _Six Flags_ on the side. _Heaven_.

When all of them were again settled in on blankets and boxes, Hershel cleared his throat.

"It appears that we have missed Thanksgiving along the way, along with a number of Sundays and other days of note. While I am sure there have been more fortuitous Christmas gatherings, I am thankful for what we have here, now. For all of you." His eyes rested on Maggie and Beth before returning to the rest of the group.

"When my wife – Beth's mother, Annette – and I married, we were combining two families into one. That first year, we deliberately set out to form new traditions for our new family. Habits that would be part of our lives together there-after. And while these new customs were not all entirely successful -"

"Remind me to tell you about the chocolate popcorn," Maggie said to Glenn, in a voice that carried clear to the far end of the container.

"- We did eventually find some new customs to weld our family together. One of the most successful was Christmas Eve, when we would sing carols together. If it's agreeable to everyone, I'd like to invite you all, as our family, to sit with us as we sing."

There was a general murmur around the container. Next to Carol, Daryl was silent, studying Hershel.

"By the time Bethy was ten, we had added the tradition that the newest member of the family would choose the first song. This year, Glenn, that is you."

Beth raised her hands and did a little dance, still sitting in place. "Not the youngest! Not the youngest!" she chanted.

Glenn looked around, confused. "I- uh, well, isn't that Carl?"

"YES! I pick –"

"Carl!" Lori and Rick snapped together. The boy looked up, clearly shocked to hear his parents in accord for the first time in weeks.

Glenn held out his hands. "No, no, it's okay, it's like – a Christmas present! There." He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "Merry Christmas! You get to pick first."

"He gets to pick second," Lori said firmly.

Maggie elbowed Glenn. "Pick."

"So, ah, do they have to be carols? Like, you know, church songs? Not that there is anything wrong with that…"

Hershel smiled tolerantly, "My wife and I always chose _Let It Snow_."

"Oh," Glenn turned to Maggie with a mortified look on his face. "Do we have a song? Did we pick a song and I forgot?"

"Sweetheart," Maggie sighed, "You are making this way too difficult. Tell. Us. Your. Favorite. Now."

"_Jingle Bell Rock_." It all came out in a rush. The Greene family went a little still. "Uh, do you know that one?"

"Yes," Beth said simply. "Shawn liked that one, so we all know it. You have to help me sing, though – that's the rules."

_Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock_

_Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring_

_Snowing and blowing up bushels of fun_

_Now the jingle hop has begun_

By the end of the first line, Glenn was grinning again, by the end of the first verse T-Dog had joined in with the Greenes, and then Rick, Lori, and Carol were singing as well. It didn't last – Beth knew far more verses than the rest of them, but they all joined in for the last chorus.

Nearly all – Carol was aware of Daryl sitting at her shoulder, slowly sipping the hot cocoa. He wasn't singing, but he hadn't left, either. From time to time he would lean out, shifting the tarp enough to check outside.

"Now is it my turn?" Carl stage whispered to his mother.

She rubbed his head. "Go ahead."

"FROSTY THE SNOWMAN!" Without warning, he plunged into the song. "_Frosty the Snowman was a jolly happy soul –_" and made Beth hustle to catch up.

_With a corncob pipe and button nose…_

At the end, Maggie said to Carl, "Okay, pick the person to pick the next one."

"Dad," Carl said, without hesitation. "Come on Dad, you have to pick, it's the rule."

"This comes with a lot of rules," Rick observed, a bit of the edge back in his voice.

"Honey," Lori murmured. Rick ducked his head, and then said flatly, "_Oh Tannenbaum_."

Beth looked momentarily stricken. "Uh, I only know the words in English. If that's okay?"

Rick nodded sourly, mouth set.

Half way through the first verse, Carl interrupted. "Dad, you have to sing, too!"

Carol could feel Rick's tension from an arm's length away. For Carl, for Christmas, Rick took a deep breath and joined in with Beth. Carol sang, too, with Maggie and Hershel, and stumbled over half the words in their version.

_...the way to joy and peace for me...oh Christmas tree_

Rick's mood must have made an impression on Carl, because after the last of _Oh Tannenbaum_ faded away, the boy waited a long, long moment before asking quietly, "Who now, Dad?"

Rick lifted his head, looked across the group. "T-Dog." Lori flinched, hard. Rick either didn't notice or didn't care. "I bet you sang a lot at your church, with that voice."

"Oh, yeah," T said, drawing it out. "Yeah, we did. Girl, do you know _Go Tell It On The Mountain_, or do I got to call it line by line?"

Beth shook her head, grinning. "Oh, no, I know this one."

_While shepherds kept their watching _

_Over silent flocks by night_

Hershel joined in on the next line, and it was amazing, the two big voices filling the container. Maggie sang with Beth, as did Carol, and the Grimes sang the chorus. To Carol's surprise, Daryl sang the chorus as well, raspy and quiet. She wasn't sure if anyone else heard.

T picked Lori next, as if to make up for Rick passing her by. She lifted her chin, eyes locked on Beth. "_Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful_."

Rick looked like he'd been slapped. Daryl snorted, not quietly enough. Carol elbowed him.

Lori sang the words clearly and competently, if not as well as Beth. Glenn floundered through the chorus. Carol sang. Rick sat stone faced, staring at the fire, while Carl looked from one parent to the other.

When the song trailed off in an uncomfortable silence, Carl leaned forward. "How about _Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer_? Shane liked that one best!"

The temperature – already chill - abruptly dropped by ten degrees. "Baby, hush," said Lori.

Carl shook his head, upset by the sudden tension, trying to make it right. "I know he did, he told me."

"Did you know," Hershel said, "That it was a veterinarian who wrote that song?" Carl shook his head in disbelief. "It was. However, it was a cowboy – Gene Autry – who first sang _Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer_."

At Carol's elbow, Daryl suddenly said, "Yea HAW!"

T-Dog snorted. "I _thought_ that was your favorite, there, nature-boy."

"Well, it ain't. It's lil – nonna yer damn business." Carol put a hand on Daryl's leg, squeezed. He jerked a little, leaned back and growled, "You don't know nothing."

Beth leaned forward into the break between voices and sang, like a conspirator, "_You know Dasher and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen_ –" and then they were all off, singing through the adventures of the red-nosed deer, hiding who he was, rejected by the others, and eventually the savior of the day.

Halfway through, Carol found herself thinking, _my, never thought about it that way_. The mental image of Rudolf pinned to a crucifix sent her into snorts of laugher, half-hysterically, and it was with an effort that she dragged her attention back to the song at hand. She didn't think the others noticed, but Daryl looked at her and shook his head as to say, _crazy people_.

At the end, Lori gamely said, "Okay, Maggie, your turn."

Maggie leaned in towards Glenn and began crooning, "_Ba-da-bo, ba-da-bo, ooo, Santa Baby, just slip a sable under the tree, for me…_"

The laughter drowned out whatever the next line was, and Maggie had to start all over. Glenn rotated between looking horrified, pretending to take notes, and sneaking glances at Hershel, who put on a stern frown whenever he caught Glenn looking at him and laughed outloud the rest of the time.

When they finished, Maggie took a deep swallow from Glenn's mug and pointed across the fire, calling out Carol's name. "You pick!"

"Yeah!" said Carl. "What was Sophia's favorite?"

Lori drew a breath to scold again, but Carol had had time to prepare for this. "Oh, she always liked the Alvin and Chipmunks song –"

"Yah!" Carl cheered.

"- but that's much too hard to sing if you're not a Chipmunk."

Over Carl's crestfallen look, T said, "I knew we should have picked up the helium tanks from that party shop."

A fresh chuckling murmur ran around the container. Carol hugged herself, flashed T a smile and said, "Beth, do you know, _Do You See What I See_?"

"An excellent choice," Hershel murmured. "Go ahead, Bethy, Carol, you start."

_Said the night wind to the little lamb –_

On the third verse, Beth let her voice drop away. Hershel joined in, and then on the fourth verse –

_Said the king to the people everywhere –_

T's voice reached down to the heart of the earth and brought up a wealth of solid determination, tinged with sadness.

They dropped off, one by one, and Beth finished it alone

_He will bring us goodness and light…_

In the quiet after, T said, "Amen." Rick picked up a hand and draped it around Carl's shoulders, hugging his son to his side.

"Mr Dixon," Beth called quietly. "You haven't picked." Carol felt him tense up again beside her. He picked at the blanket over his lap, twisting bits of fluff off the wool. "Your turn."

He shrugged, swallowed. "I'm good. Ya'll already sang it. The one with the little lamb."

Carol considered him, wondering if everyone else could see how badly Daryl was lying, and then turned back to the group. "If Daryl's going to claim mine, then I'm going to ask for an extra. How about _Little Drummer Boy_?"

Heads nodded all the way around the circle. Daryl's shoulder was a rock, leaning into hers.

_Come, they told me_ – hands drummed on thighs, boxes, the side of the container. _Parumpapumpum_, _rumpapumpum_. Beside Carol, Daryl's fingers tapped on the stock of his crossbow.

_I am a poor boy too, parumpapumpum,_

_I have no gift to bring parumpapumpum,_

_That's fit to give a king, parumpapumpum, rumpapumpum, rumpapumpum_

Carol swallowed around the lump in her throat and kept on singing.

Then they sang _Away in a Manger_, and _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_. More wood went into the fire and the bowls were collected and stowed away with a rattle. Daryl rose, gathered up his crossbow, and slipped out into the darkness, only to return a few moments later, face bright with the cold. He tugged the tarp closed and settled again by Carol.

"This is fun!" Carl said, into the quiet while everyone passed around more hot water. "I want to do this every night."

"Every Christmas, maybe, baby," Lori said, planting a kiss on his head. "Not every night. Christmas songs are for Christmas." Carl frowned at her. "That's the rules."

They sang _Let It Snow_, then, for Hershel and Annette. And then Carl asked for the _real_ Jingle Bells song, Maggie wanted the Batman version –

_Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg_ –

- and Lori asked for _Silent Night_. They sang it twice. Carl fell asleep half way through.

At the end, Beth cleared her throat, straightened her back, and sang, alone, _Angels We Have Heard On High_, her voice carrying the long, rolling strand of melody up, up, through the smoky haze at the top of the container, the cold metal over that, and to the stars beyond.

_Glo-o-o-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-o-o-O-ri-a in Ex-cel-sis De-ooooooo!_

The fire had nearly gone out, and was only glowing embers.

The silence stretched on.

Finally Maggie murmured, "Good night, everyone. Merry Christmas."

There was a general rustle of stretching legs, shifting bodies, another few bits of chair added to the firepit and Rick standing to step past Carol and find a place by the entrance. "I got watch," he said to Daryl, voice low. Carol caught the glint of two sets of eyes, looking back at the fire. Then she wrapt herself in her blanket and took the empty spot next to Lori.


	5. By Saint Agnes' Fountain

_In which more things are found._

* * *

><p>She woke early the next morning to pale light and a pressing bladder. Smoke rose from the fireplace –fresh wood over glowing embers, sure to catch soon. Against the far wall, T and Hershel's snores rolled on. Carl murmured something in his sleep, under the blanket that Lori had pulled over both their heads. Rising, Carol found her jacket, boots, and a hat before picking her way to the edge of the tarp. By the entrance, Rick still slept. Daryl's blankets were empty, already shoved to one side.<p>

Outside the container, she made a freezing trip to the pit. When she came out, the orange cat was sitting beside the wall, tail curled over his toes. As she watched, he turned his head, scratched behind one ear, and then sauntered back to the gap under the shed. Carol tilted her head back to consider the sky. Pale, light grey over a soft blue, and not quite yet sunrise. The temperature wasn't nearly as bad as she had thought. The string of empty water containers still hung on the fence. She stared at the water jugs, the still quiet yard, and the path to the creek. Then, resolutely, she slung the strings over her shoulders before quietly undoing the chain to the small gate. Her fingers were aching from the cold metal by the time she finished, and she stuffed them in her pockets with relief.

The frost crunched under her feet as she went, stepping carefully over the fallen log in the path, her heels knocking small hollow thunks against the plastic gallons. The drop to the creekside was less than she remembered. She perched precariously on the sandbar, reaching past the rime of frost to dip the water jugs in the slow moving water. Despite her care, she dropped two bottles and soaked the cuff of her sleeve retrieving them.

The woods were still, quiet, beautiful.

"Thought Rick said for people to not go out alone."

Startled, Carol jerked upright, flinging the water jug at the figure who materialized at her shoulder. For his part, Daryl jumped back as well, but not fast enough to avoid the water that splashed up when the full jug hit the ground and burst open .

"What the hell!" He danced backwards, his pants soaked from the thigh down.

Sprawled on her rump, her elbow digging into the mud, Carol drew a breath to apologize. Instead, what came out was, "You idiot! Quit sneaking up on people!"

"I was not! I just come down to make sure you – you ain't supposed to be out alone!" He stomped towards her, kicking the now deflated jug out of his way.

She scrambled backwards, away from the splash of water and nearly into the creek. "Well, I'm not alone now!"

"And we're gonna have a hell of a lot of company if you keep on hollering! Jesus, woman, I thought you were quiet!"

"I AM QU-" Carol stopped halfway to her feet and sank down again, mud oozing under her feet, her muddy hands over her mouth, fingertips pressing her eyelids shut. After a moment, hands still in front of her face, she said,"I am quiet. Except when someone scares the shit out of me, I am quiet."

Daryl let out a huff. Another moment, and he said, "Well, I guess so." Shuffling his feet a bit in the mud, Daryl eased closer. "C'mon."

She looked up and stared a moment at the hand he offered before taking it and letting him pull her to her feet. As soon as she was upright, he released her hand, wiping the mud away on his pants. She shook her head and bent to collect the remaining water bottles. He held out a hand again and she passed him one string of bottles, nodding her thanks before tackling the slope up out of the creekbed. Daryl looked around at the creek once more before following.

Up on the trail, he dogged her heels. When the trees opened up, he stretched his legs and drew abreast of her. Carol shot him a glance, but when she saw he was staring out across the field, she put her eyes back on the path and kept her mouth shut.

Halfway back, he said, "You know a lot of songs."

So much for an apology. "Some, yes. Not near as many as Beth or Maggie."

He flicked a glance at her, then back away again. "One of the songs I know, we didn't sing it last night."

Now this was interesting. "Oh?" She didn't say_, I didn't hear you singing much at all_, although he deserved it, for that snit-fit with T. On the other hand…she frowned. The argument had shifted attention off the Grimes, fast enough…

They were at the fallen log, and instead of stepping over it, she let her feet come to a halt. Her boots were muddy but not as soaked as she had thought they would be. Daryl straggled to a stop beside her. "Which one?"

"The one about the guys with the camels, the, uh…the Chinese ones."

Chinese? Camels?

_Oh._ And she had thought the school district where they'd enrolled Sophia was bad. "The Wise Men? Do you mean _We Three Kings_?"

Daryl nodded, his face open, pleased. "Yeah, that one. You know it?"

She set the water bottles down. _Hm hm hmm hm_ and he started nodding vigorously. She opened her mouth, then fell silent and held up a hand. Shucking her jacket, she folded it over the log and sat down.

Before her, Daryl sank down on his heels. Straightening her back, she began again.

_We three kings of Orient are_

_Bearing gifts we traverse afar._

_Field and fountain, moor and mountain,_

_Following yonder star._

She sang the verses of all three kings, and Daryl joined in, a husky tenor, for Balthazar.

_Myrrh is mine: its bitter perfume_

_Breaths a life of gathering gloom._

_Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding dying,_

_Sealed in the stone-cold tomb._

Eyes crinkling in a smile she did not let reach her mouth, Carol thought, _it would be that one, that Daryl remembered._ She finished the last chorus alone.

_O star of wonder, star of night,_

_Star with royal beauty bright,_

_Westward leading, still proceeding,_

_Guide us to thy perfect Light._

The last of the song faded away, over the frosted woods, the silver-touched grasses and the pale mist in the trees. She drew in a breath, let the cold sink down into her chest, easing away the ache that had suddenly wrapt her heart with heat. "Guide us, oh Lord," she sighed.

Daryl's eyes shifted past her, back up to the container yard, and he abruptly stood.

_Someone watching_, Carol thought, gathering up all the water jugs as she rose. It was only Carl, watching them under shaded hands, before raising a hand and darting away back to the sleeping container.

"Breakfast time," Carol said with resignation. She stepped over the log, gathering her coat as she went. Inside the fence, Rick strode purposefully to the gate, buttoning his coat as he went. He lifted a hand to Daryl before walking up the road to the Suburban.

Vaguely, Carol recalled the plan for a scouting run.

Daryl fell in beside her again. When they were nearly at the gate, he said, "It's a good song. Nice." Complimenting her singing if he'd had no hand in it at all.

"It's an Epiphany song," she said. "Not really a Christmas carol."

"Epiphany? Like, uh, realizing something all of a sudden?"

She smiled, careful of teasing him, suspicious of his mockery. "Yes, like that. They call the day the wise men came to Bethlehem, Epiphany."

"They didn't come on Christmas?"

Now she narrowed her eyes, unsure if he was serious. "No, not – well, I don't suppose that anyone knows. But Epiphany is celebrated a week after Christmas."

He put a hand on the gate. Rick had already gone to the vehicles, leaving the gate shut behind him. Daryl unwrapt the chain. "Exactly a week?" he asked, "Seven days?"

"I –actually, I don't remember. Maybe a week. Maybe it's the seventh of January. Thank you," she said, as he swung the gate open for her. "A week, ten days, something like that."

He nodded, frowning. "So, until it was Epiphany, you could sing that song."

Right, Lori and her truncation of the Christmas season, for Carl. _I don't think her rules apply to you, _Carol thought, but stopped. She didn't want to argue about the Grimes.

"Sure," she said instead, while he closed the gate between them and slung the chain about both uprights. Rick waited by the Suburban, engine already running. "If I remembered when Epiphany was. Then I would know when to stop."

He stared at her through the fence. The corners of his mouth shifted. "Damn shame none of ya'll know what day it is."

She burst out laughing then, and Carl came over, demanding to be let in on the joke, and got handed two strings of water to carry to his mother, for his pains. When Carol looked up, Daryl was walking away, to Rick and the run ahead, the red rag in his pocket swaying jauntily to his stride.

_end_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **PG-13 for language. Smutless. Songfic. Not made entirely of joy. Chapter headings from the carol "Good King Wenceslas". With mongo thanks to FS for beta and song-smithing.

**Endnotes:** It has always bugged the heck out of me that supposedly in the ZA no one knows what day it is. As if all of humanity hasn't been able to manage this for millennia, in pre-literate societies, with bandits, wars, wolves, bandits, and all sorts of things. Eventually, I'd like to address this further. For now – in this story, Wildfire erupts sometime in the summer of 2011, which puts the S2/S3 interval over the winter of 2011/2012.

Hershel is not entirely correct – the author of "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" (Randy Brooks) was not a veterinarian, but one of the first couple to record the song was. Elmo Shropshire graduated from Auburn and was an east coast racetrack vet before moving to San Francisco with his then-wife and singing partner. Gene Autry was not the first to record Rudolph, but his recording bumped the previous recording off the charts less than a month later.

Epiphany is traditionally celebrated 12 days after Christmas, and the eve of Epiphany is known as Twelfth Night. The exact date of celebration varies among different Christian denominations. Many Protestant traditions do not put much (if any emphasis) on Epiphany. However, in the Catholic Church, and prior to the division of the Latin church, and especially prior to the invention of moveable type and widespread literacy, it was traditional to announce the date of that year's Easter celebration, so that the whole community's calendars could be unified. (Easter is calculated through a complex process, but is roughly a lunar observation.)


End file.
